Anne Whitney

The Passion Flower

by Anne Whitney

The cross, the thorns, the cruel nails again!Thus opens God's diviner flower of DayTo thee, Flower-giver: was no better wayFound out, whereby thou early should'st obtain,What others seek through life-long years in vain,Peace and a large, sweet charity, than thisWhich that stern angel points thee to, whose kissOf consecration on thy brow is PAIN.I weep consenting -- knowing well that soGod tempers to a more than mortal finenessO Friend, so high in sorrow -- be not mindlessI keep for thee a heart-warm rest below;With hopes and human yearnings, wilt thou know?It shall not mar thy strength or thy divineness.

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